What We Were Made For
by The Consulting Storyteller
Summary: "Where was the time when they were the famous detective Sherlock Holmes and his assistant Dr. John Watson? Unfortunately, this time had long fled."
1. Chapter 1

**Notes:** thanks again for the amazin Asian-Inkwell who took upon her time to beta this multichapter fic.

I have a Britpicker, now! Huge thanks to Hamstermoon on AO3 who offered her (indeed needed) help!

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**Chapter 1**

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"This is completely stupid! This is the stupidest thing you've ever done!"

"Still, you let me do it."

Without stopping his running, John turned to Sherlock who was close beside him, reproach on his lips. The rain beat furiously around them, straight and thick, but they hardly seemed to care.

They ran through Marble Arch without stopping, crossing the path of a night owl who was hurrying to return home, and went up along Great Cumberland Place. Doubled up with a stitch, John was soon forced to slow down. Hands clutching his knees, he fell against a wall, his breathing erratic.

"Enough," he hissed between his clenched teeth. "We _stop_ here. Anyway, I think we've lost them."

The surroundings were empty at this hour and in this weather. A few windows were lit, but the footpaths were deserted. The rain was still falling as if to plunge the street into shades of blue-gray, their soaked clothes stuck to their skin, but no revolving lights appeared.

"Damn!" John swore, his hand pressed to his aching ribs. "Why did you have to insult the witness?"

"His stupidity was equaled only by his blindness!" Sherlock protested. "He had all the elements under his nose and he barely had noticed them."

"Not everyone has your fabulous capacities of observation, Sherlock!" John retorted furiously. "Because of you, now, not only did we have to leave the crime scene, but we also have no idea what happened!"

They stood motionless, beaten by the rain, with John slowly catching his breath. They waited for the appearance of a tricolour car crowned with blue light, but no vehicle came.

Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on the end of the street a few seconds then realized they were alone. John, who was breathing again normally, approached him.

"Come on, Sherlock, we should go. We've done enough for tonight."

Sherlock sided with his opinion. He nodded, and then, the neck pulled in their shoulders, both walked away in the rain.

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They arrived at Baker Street drenched. Sherlock had raised the collar of his coat, but the effort had turned out to be useless. They entered hastily, water dripping from their clothes and cascading to their feet. The lights were off at Mrs. Hudson's flat, so they quietly went up the stairs as not to wake her.

John took off his shoes on arrival in the lounge while Sherlock hung his coat and immediately headed for the bathroom. Meanwhile, John went to his room to undress and put his dressing gown waiting for his turn for the shower. Hoping that Sherlock would not have taken all the hot water…

When he came out, the kettle was already on. Sherlock was in his pyjamas and dressing gown, looking at his computer.

"Hacking Scotland Yard again?" John guessed.

"I can't believe they missed the lipstick on the rim of the basin!" Sherlock exclaimed. "It was right in front of their eyes!"

John opened a cupboard, taking a tea bag that he slipped into his mug, and poured the boiling water.

"Maybe they thought it had a perfectly good reason to be there," he suggested.

"What kind of woman forgets her lipstick, John?"

"Perhaps the victim kept it?"

Sherlock looked up at him, frowning with an idea that his brain refused to consider.

"Why would he do that?"

John gave him a smile in reply and sat down in his armchair.

"Because there are people, men and women, who like to keep a souvenir of their affairs. I had a fellow in medicine, who kept girl's hair ties. It could be an elastic band or a hairslide."

"Fetish?"

John shook his head.

"Not especially. Not even another notch on his bedpost. For him, it meant that they were important."

Sherlock shrugged, holding a scathing statement, then went back to his computer.

"It's a shame they spotted us," he said regretfully, "I wanted to have a closer look at the bathroom. I feel that this is where the biggest clues are likely to be gathered. They should analyze the tub, look for traces of DNA, probe pipes, I'm sure there's a lot more to learn from the pipes."

John listened without saying a word. He slowly sipped his tea, listening to the rain outside as a gust of wind sent it to beat against the windows. Sherlock continued to read the new facts of the case, dropping an observation from time to time that sounded like sarcasm.

Eventually Sherlock finished sending his notes to Lestrade and as he did so John stood up.

"I'm going to bed", he said. "I suppose you'll want to go around the crime scene again tomorrow."

"Very likely, indeed."

"Well, see you tomorrow, then."

And John went to bed.

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**Note:** back again! This chapter is a bit short, but it'll get better, promise! Update every thursday.

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	2. Chapter 2

**Note:** Britpicked

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**Chapter 2**

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"John, wake up!"

John awoke with a start, slammed in the face by his pillow.

"Hmm… What?"

"Wake up!"

"What? Whaddahell?"

Wading in the wobbly rest of sleep, John rubbed his befuddled eyes and made out the silhouette of Sherlock who fidgeted about in his room, throwing various clothes on the bed.

"A report has just appeared in news websites," he explained, "an apparent suicide in Greenwich. Come on; we're going."

John then had the idea to look at his alarm clock. The bright letters almost assaulted his vision.

"What? Sherlock, it's three o'clock in the morning!"

"Precisely, the crime scene will still be fresh. Come on, wake up!"

Realizing that he had no choice, John obeyed, yawned loudly, and then put his clothes on growling. Sherlock was already back downstairs to gather his belongings, John heard him whirling about in his room.

They managed to catch a cab and drove towards Greenwich.

"So?" John finally asked as they passed Oxford Circus. "What do we know about this case?"

"A man called the police saying he'd heard a gunshot in the flat next to his. The call was reported in an hour ago. The Met must already be on the scene."

"And why are we interested?"

"Apparent suicide. I love apparent suicides because they're only looking like one and it's always fun to prove that it's a murder."

"What makes you say that this is not really a suicide?"

Sherlock, who was typing various things on the screen of his mobile phone, looked up at him.

"The weapon. According to the information contained in the article, it's a firearm. A gun, to be exact."

"So?"

"Women rarely use firearms to commit suicide, unless they have no other choice. And even less in the temple. This is a way too violent, not feminine enough."

"Why?"

"Vanity, John. A woman always has the concern for her appearance at all times. By reflex, she'd choose a more discreet way or place. The temple with a gun is too messy."

"If you say so…"

John had finally learned to never stress out when Sherlock appeared to be so sure of himself. He leaned back in the seat of the cab, rubbing his still heavy eyes. Damn, what he would have given to stay in bed… He just hoped that the crime scene was not too long and that he would resist long enough.

They arrived in Greenwich, and the cab stopped at a sufficient distance from the crime scene so as to not attract attention to themselves. Except for a few lighted windows, the area where they had gotten out was empty, but they could already hear the siren of a police car that was going away.

They walked down a deserted street which led to a slightly wider street, in which some onlookers crowded. A swarm of coloured lights then drew their attention to a building façade where the Yard teams were gathered around.

Sherlock analyzed the scene in a glance. Two police cars, the van belonging to forensics. Obviously, they hadn't removed the victim's body yet, which was good news.

They went around the neighbourhood area to locate the access. On the other side of the building block there was a block of flats where the onlookers came and went; maybe they could enter there. There must have access to the roof, through which they could get access to the building that interested them.

They waited around, until a little old lady went. The two men rushed after her, Sherlock flashing a charming smile and joking about the animation in the street next door. The lady smiled back, adding that it was safer nowhere, which Sherlock didn't care about, but he refrained from showing it. John had patiently and bravely managed to make him understand that friendliness went much more unnoticed than haughtiness. They joked one minute with the lady who eventually disappearing into a lift, then went up the stairs to the roof. As expected, the two buildings communicated. It wasn't that difficult for them to find the emergency door leading inside.

The building was crowded, its occupants all milling around. They were talking to each other in the corridors and even standing on the stairs as they satisfied their curiosity as to what was going on. Sherlock winced because their presence would certainly complicate things, but for now it hid them from the police by making them look like they had a reason to be there.

The crime scene was three floors below the roof. The whole level was sealed off and tenants asked to stay away in order to facilitate the work of the police. With his natural authority and one of Lestrade's pickpocketed warrant cards, Sherlock made his way among the onlookers gathered before the blue police tape that closed access to the stairs and went below without ceremony, followed closely by John who took his notebook from his pocket and quickly took a few notes to get under the skin of his character. He prayed they wouldn't be recognized by an officer who had earlier experience of their intrusions; but luck seemed to be on their side as the young officer posted outside the door of the victim's flat nodded without blinking at the badge Sherlock waved under his nose.

"I've been informed that the witness is still present," he started immediately. "I want to talk to him."

The agent pointed towards an unshaven man in a t-shirt and a jogging bottoms.

"Right there, sir."

Sherlock immediately walked towards the witness, followed by John. He nodded, and then again cast an eye over the police team that milled around them in case one of them recognized them. He had already spotted the exit down the corridor.

"It was you who called the police after the shot?" he asked the witness straight off.

The man shifted his weight nervously from one foot to the other. Fear reaction. Late thirties, only child, probably born and raised in the neighbourhood. No pet, single. His shirt stretched over a belly that showed the remains of the frozen pizza that had recently provided him with a meal. Engine oil under his fingernails: garage mechanic or similar. Sherlock also noticed his taste for low quality beers, nearly advised him to wear earmuffs at work judging by the way he turned his ear in their direction, but refrained, waiting for the answer.

"Yes, it's me…" the man replied in a breath that smelled of smoke and frantically scratching an arm studded with blood tests.

"Tell us exactly what you saw and heard."

"Listen… I already told your colleagues everything, what more do you want? I was quiet in front of my TV, and then 'bang! '. I swear, I freaked out."

"About what time, more or less?" Sherlock continued while John dutifully took notes.

The witness looked vaguely in the air, probing his memory.

"Gosh, I don't know. Something like half past eleven in the evening. It was in the middle of the last episode of NCIS on Channel 5. I could have imagined that it came from the TV, but it made such a racket…"

"You called the police immediately afterwards?"

The witness raised his hands in a defensive posture.

"Hey, you people obviously like to live dangerously. Me, I work in a junkyard, I watch films with a beer and a pizza. I hear gunshots; of course I won't dare to play the hero. Yes, I called right away, I wouldn't take the risk of letting this guy turning up at my place too."

"Calling the police is a brave thing to do," John suggested. "Most people would just prefer to hide and wait it out."

He glanced at Sherlock.

"Have you finished?" he enquired.

Sherlock turned, signaling that he was actually done. John thanked the witness with a smile and followed Sherlock who had taken the direction of the flat.

"Do you really want to take the risk of going in?" he asked apprehensively. "There must be a dozen in there."

"Precisely, we'll be less conspicuous."

John always doubted, but he was constantly impressed by the mathematics where the chances of being seen were inversely proportional to the number of people present at the scene.

The place was small, a two-roomed flat simply furnished. Sherlock immediately noticed the missing furniture and the few clothes in the bedroom's wardrobe. Financial problems, then. The small cabinet near the front door collapsed under mail. Bank, loan offices, life wasn't prosperous for the victim. A-side mail, an answering machine had the indicator blinking. Without waiting, Sherlock pressed the play button 'Hello, Allison, this is Mandy! You can call me as soon as you get this, please? Cheers! '. He noted the time of the call: 10:37 PM. He then turned to look at the door. It was picked, but discreetly so that it was almost undetectable. Professional job. Sherlock couldn't repress a smile: the suicide was actually apparent.

"Sherlock…" he suddenly heard John's voice.

He immediately recognized the urgent tone and straightened, leaving the flat immediately. In the hallway, DI Dimmock advanced, in conversation with what appeared to be the first police officer who had arrived on the scene. Dimmock hadn't seen them yet. Sherlock stifled a curse and, Dimmock still conversing, turned quickly to take a quick look at the main room where the victim's body still was. No signs of a struggle, no missing objects except those that had been sold, although it was difficult to tell the difference. Empty glass on the coffee table, two broken nails, heating off, clock running four minutes slow, a small circular piece of what looked like aluminum, he stored all he could see in a few seconds. Then just had time to turn and walk down the hall, John on his heels. At a brisk but sure pace, they advanced towards the emergency exit previously located, and fled.

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	3. Chapter 3

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**Notes:** Britpicked! :D

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**Chapter 3**

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"There are many conflicting factors in this investigation, John," Sherlock stated a few hours later before a tea.

"Really?" John yawned. He had slept little, and would have gladly stayed in bed, but Sherlock's morning violin hadn't given him that luxury. He stretched his shoulders, chasing numbness in his muscles.

"Really," Sherlock confirmed. "Come and look at this."

John rose painfully from his armchair and leaned over the shoulder of his friend.

"What am I supposed to be seeing?" he asked.

"Everything. Nothing is consistent. Suicide apparent but her lock was picked, a message on the answering machine at a time when the victim was supposed to be alive… And then there's this."

Sherlock displayed a new file on the computer screen and turned to John.

"Tell me what you see."

It was the analysis of the victim's fingerprints on the weapon. The photos showed the fingerprint powder making them stand out starkly white against the dark metal. They were photographed from different angles. The comparison had permitted a 100% match.

"Obviously, it was her holding the gun," John concludes, "How is it an element that doesn't match?"

Sherlock immediately looked up at the sky. John soon realized that he had missed a parameter.

"Come on, John, a former military with a wide experience of firearms, you can't be that stupid."

So the problem didn't reside in the origin of the fingerprints. He focused again on the pictures and, as taken by a sudden inspiration, mimed spontaneously holding a gun in his hand. A smile split his face in two when he understood where the anomaly came from.

"The arrangement of fingerprints is illogical," he deduced.

"Exactly. The gun wasn't held properly."

John leaned back on the computer. Now it was brought to light, the mistake was indeed obvious.

"It doesn't make any sense," he said. "If she had really held it this way, the weapon should have been forced out of her hands by the shot."

"But she had it in her hands when the police arrived on the scene."

John bit his cheek.

"The ballistic analysis?" he asked.

"Positive. The bullet that killed her came from this weapon."

John straightened.

"Okay, let's summarize: the victim had money problems, big money problems. Enough to receive letters from the bank and loan offices, besides selling her furniture. The bullet that killed her came from a weapon she was holding when her body was discovered. That calls for suicide. She was in debt and wanted to escape."

"Except that" Sherlock continued, "Her lock was obviously picked by a stranger. The arrangement of her fingerprints on the weapon is completely erratic. Her answering machine has a message dating from a time when the gunfire hasn't yet sounded."

"If she was murdered," John suggested, "Maybe she was already with her murderer and she couldn't answer?"

Sherlock raised his forefinger to emphasize his theory.

"It's an idea," he tempered, "Except that there's more."

He opened a new file.

"The first conclusions of the forensics" he announced. "Look at the time of death."

John leaned forward, and immediately raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"It's impossible," he stammered. "They must have been mistaken."

"Despite my scepticism towards their skills, I doubt they are that stupid."

John reread the file to be sure that he'd read the words correctly.

"9:30 PM – 10:00 PM? But it's almost two hours before the shot! It can't be possible."

"I'm afraid it is."

"Then the witness lied?"

Sherlock pouted.

"The file doesn't mention the verbal evidence of other residents of the floor, but I think we can assume that if the shot was heard, the weapon wouldn't have a silencer. Therefore, it had to be heard by many people. If all the evidences points to the same time, either they are all lying, or something is missing."

John straightened.

"Or," he suggested, "The time estimated by forensics is correct. She was already dead at the time of recording the message on her answering machine."

"This is my conclusion. But in that case, why this scene? And on top of that, what has killed her in the first place if it's not the gun? This is especially the way the lock was picked indicates that the stranger who introduced himself into the flat is experienced. Would an experienced killer take the risk of letting his gun wake the whole neighbourhood? He would have put a silencer."

"You know the criminals better than me, Sherlock."

John then turned and sat down in his armchair with a sigh, putting his computer on his lap and logging onto his blog. Sherlock was already immersed in the intricacies of the case, quickly typing on his keyboard.

"What are you going to call this one?" He wanted to know.

"I haven't thought about it yet. 'The Double Death ', maybe."

Sherlock didn't answer, but John didn't need to look up to guess the half-smile of his friend. Sherlock had never hidden his scepticism about his choice of titles, the same for his propensity for romance.

'_Late at night, the information reached us that a strange death had taken place in Greenwich. When we arrived the crime scene presented us with the strange picture of a familiar scene but some elements we couldn't have predicted. This case, and we didn't know it yet, had a few mysteries in store for us…_'

For convenience, John never mentioned in his articles how their investigations 'reached ' them, much less how they were 'arriving' to the crime scene. Besides the fact that it protected them from the police, they avoided the occurrence of fans claiming to act like them.

John looked at his draft critically. 'The Double Death ' finally seemed like an accurate title.

John sank further into his armchair, thinking about the last crime scene they had fled. He felt a fist in his chest when the image of Lieutenant Dimmock arriving on the scene floated in his memory. What would have happened if he had seen them? John abandoned the keyboard, resting his arms on the armrests, hundreds of scenarios scrolling through his head, making his stomach contract with anxiety. He hated this feeling that he desperately couldn't get used to. Increasingly, their new situation weighed on him. Increasingly, he felt a flush of nostalgia to remember what their lives were before. Where was the time when they arrived on crime scenes as on conquered territory, with the blessing of Lestrade and the antipathy of Sally and Anderson? Where was the time where their deductions were more valuable than the results of an entire team of investigators? Where was the time when they were the famous detective Sherlock Holmes and his assistant Dr. John Watson?

Unfortunately, this time had long fled.

After Moriarty's fall at Barts, John and Sherlock were fully aware of the existence of a whole network behind him. Determined to bring down that network, they had decided to disappear. Molly had helped, she had provided the bodies and falsified reports while Sherlock and John had faked their deaths, one by jumping from the hospital roof, the other using his own gun in the living room at Baker Street. Released from any liability and any official existence, with new identities, they had had free reign to destroy Moriarty's accomplices wherever they were in the world. The task was daunting; it had tested them many times. They had been homesick. They both stayed in luxury hotels in Abu Dhabi as well as under bridges in Mexico. Their target sometimes disappeared to return elsewhere, but they always ended up achieving their goals. It took them two years, they had returned exhausted, but they had reached their goal.

But their return at the face of the public hadn't been pleasant. Nobody had forgiven them their little sleight of hand. John and Sherlock were aware of having left behind many people in distress, but dying provided the best solution to allow them to disappear. Nobody had understood. Nobody had wanted to understand. Considering themselves betrayed, all the people they knew had disowned them. Harry, Stamford, even Lestrade, to the great satisfaction of Sally and Anderson. Even Molly, who accused them of keeping her out despite the help she had given them. And Mrs. Hudson, although she had consented to let them reoccupy the flat, didn't show herself to them anymore. They heard from her time to time at home, they slipped the rent under the door but they hadn't seen her since. As to Mycroft, he never had any contact with them. They had become strangers, outcasts; Sherlock had no more requests to take on cases, and John no more patients. It was as if the people they loved had got used to their absence and they wanted to keep things that way.

Since then, John and Sherlock scraped a living as best as they could, hacking The Yard's files and infiltrating crime scenes. Sherlock then sent his findings to Lestrade who was free to do what he wanted with them, while John blogged the new turn of their adventures. This didn't allow them to live, but they managed. Because that was what they were made for.

While John was focused on his blog, Sherlock had left the matter on hold and took from the fridge a tupperware containing a mold culture. The body parts had become a less common commodity since he no longer had access to the morgue at Barts and Molly's favours. The few he had managed to have, currently a string of toes, he had got hold of by stealing. And when he had no chance to get anything human he fell back on molds, ashes, perfume compositions, anything that could fall under the eye of his microscope and enrich the records of his website. Occasionally, a specimen exploded, putting a little life into the now, formless, flat.

That was what their new life was in 221B Baker Street.

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	4. Chapter 4

**Notes:** Britpicked!

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**Chapter 4**

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John woke up the next morning to the sound of a blowlamp. He was so used to Sherlock's practices that he had come to recognize the instruments he used at the mere sound. And this morning, it was obviously the blowlamp.

He yawned as he stretched, scratched his head, got up, and went down to the lower floor. In the kitchen, Sherlock was attacking something with fire. It was what looked like a bulls head or at least what was left of it. Its scent hovered in the room with the powerful smell of charred meat.

John didn't even flinch before the show. He had long been accustomed to wake up to experiments even more weird than these ones.

"Hello," he greeted nevertheless.

Face hidden by a welder's mask, Sherlock replied by nodding to him. John turned and, ignoring the current experiment, prepared his breakfast. He didn't fail to notice that the use-by date on the butter had almost expired and that he would definitely have to make the trip to Tesco today. He moved to the coffee table and turned on his computer.

"Further information on the Greenwich case?" he inquired.

The blowlamp extinguished in the kitchen, and he heard Sherlock remove his mask.

"The result of the autopsy hasn't yet been added to the file, but they went into the track of the neighbour, because of the time difference between his testimony and the forensic estimation. What I find completely stupid because they would just have to ask other neighbours to ensure the veracity of his statements."

He set down his equipment, leaving on the table the smoking bull's head.

"However, this is a track that may have an interest. According to the record, the witness has recently deposited on his bank account a large sum of money in cash. For someone who works in a junkyard, he doesn't seem very clear."

"Do you think he has been paid to lie, or to commit the crime?"

Sherlock crouched down as usual in his armchair, fingers reached under his chin.

"Commit the crime, I doubt it. He doesn't have the profile of the killer. The state of his hands suggests he works crudely, he would certainly not have the dexterity needed to pick a lock with so much fineness."

"An accomplice, then?"

"To pick a lock? When as a neighbour it would have been enough for him to ring her door? No, this man is not our killer."

John shrugged, all right with his conclusion.

"Well… In that case, where does that money come from?"

"There's only one way to find out."

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Released by his lawyer, the suspected witness had gone home. Sherlock found this strange. It was hard to conceive that the mere employee of a scrapper's yard would have had the means to afford such an effective lawyer. However, he didn't complain, it would greatly facilitate the task.

The police had left the building, leaving only the seals on the door of the crime scene. Sherlock passed without giving it the shadow of a look, knowing it was unusable after the Yard's researches, and went directly to ring the doorbell of the strangely opulent neighbour.

The man looked to heaven when, after opening the door, he saw the two men on his doormat.

"I told your colleagues that I was ready to stand at the disposal of justice if they needed," he sighed wearily.

"We are not our colleagues," Sherlock replied immediately. "Where does your extra income come from?"

"I have already told people, I make a bit on the side. You won't blame me for wanting to earn a bit extra, will you?"

But Sherlock didn't seem convinced by this explanation. He advanced a step, blocking the door.

"I'm not an expert in illegal work, but 7000 pounds, that's a lot of money for an a bit on the side or overtime."

"I work late; I have the right, don't I?" the witness protested. "Seriously, guys, I come home from work, I sit down to eat my pizza, I hear my neighbour being shot down, I do my duty by calling you, and it's me who gets suspected because I'm topping up my income as I can?"

John immediately bit his cheek. A wince from Sherlock told him that it looked like their 'offended' interviewee was going to get more than a little of his deductive skills aimed at him. The detective indeed looked at the man dead in the eyes.

"You weren't just back home that night," he asserted. "And it's precisely your pizza that told me."

"My pizza?" the man faltered.

With a flick of the chin, Sherlock pointed to the coffee table in front of the couch in the living room.

"Cardboard soaked in oil made clear it originally contained a very large pizza indeed. Unless you've eaten like a horse, you would never have the time to swallow all that in the time between when you say you got home and the time you heard the shot. You had oil on your t-shirt. You just said yourself, you were going to eat your pizza. So where did it go?"

Trapped, the witness shuffled from one foot to the other, uncomfortable.

"I could have been eating up until the police arrived," he suggested.

Sherlock had to remember not to raise his eyes to heaven.

"Just the fact that you suggested it as a possibility indicates something else. Especially with your poor health (he pointed to the punctures on his arm) and your intense nervousness; I hardly imagine you quietly eating your pizza while waiting for the police, knowing that your neighbour had just been killed in the flat next door. The truth, I'll tell you: you returned home earlier than you said. And why? Because you don't do overtime. So for the last time, where did the cash come from?"

The man became very pale, and John thought he was about to faint.

"Listen," he interposed, "Because of that money, rather than being a witness you became a suspect. If you really have nothing to do with things, tell us and we'll leave you alone."

At these words, the witness' shoulders fell. He ran a hand over his resigned face. Mute, John and Sherlock waited until he made up his mind to speak.

"I knew I shouldn't have put that money in the bank," he surrendered then. "It's just that… I didn't want to keep so much cash with me. True, I could be attacked in the street, or robbed."

He paused, waiting for an approval, but nothing came and he had to continue:

"The job pays poorly. With my health problems on top of things it wasn't easy. So I started to deal."

John frowned.

"Deal… You're talking about drugs?"

"No!" the witness protested, and his shocked look left no doubt about his sincerity. "I'm not into that shit, I'm not crazy."

"Spare parts," Sherlock understood.

The witness nodded ruefully.

"We have so many cars… What is more or less spare? So I do them up, and I resell them on the black market. I need heavy medicine and NHS is not sufficient so it makes me money for my treatments, what do you want, times are tough."

Sherlock was silent, analyzing the sincerity of his words. Then he stepped back.

"Will you tell your colleagues?" the unfortunate neighbour asked. "Look, I want no fuss, all I want is to get better."

"It seems to me I have already informed you that we weren't our colleagues" Sherlock interrupted. "However, I have one last question to ask you."

The man didn't really have a choice.

"Go on," he sighed darkly.

"Are you sure of the approximate time that you heard the shot? You are sure not to be mistaken?"

The witness immediately straightened.

"I've already said it. It was in the middle of the last episode of NCIS on Channel 5. It made such a racket that it certainly couldn't have come from the TV."

"You heard something else, then?"

The man pushed in his head in his shoulders, embarrassed.

"Well… actually… You know, when I heard the noise, I didn't think twice. I freaked out at once. The first idea that came to me was to hide in my kitchen with a potato peeler. I know it's pathetic, but I'm not like you. I freaked out, I hid myself, I called you. End of story."

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The front door slammed behind them. Once in the living room, John carelessly threw his coat over the back of his armchair before he collapsed into it.

"Well," he summed up, "We finally know that the murderer is definitely not the neighbour."

"Wonderful conclusion that illustrates your analytical mind perfectly, John."

He cast a weary glance at Sherlock, who just sat in his own armchair, fingers of thoughts together under his chin.

"You're disappointed, admit it," John quipped. "What did you hope for? That hearing the shot, he would have gone outside? Everyone isn't as recklessness as a certain consulting detective."

Sherlock didn't answer, deep in his mind palace. John made a vague gesture.

"Maybe the forensics were finally wrong," he suggested. "It takes very little to misread something : a difference of temperature, a change of environment… Unfortunately we couldn't see the victim's body; it may be elements that we lack."

"Or she was well and truly dead at the estimated time by the forensics and someone came behind to polish the job," Sherlock went suddenly.

"Polish the job?" John was surprised. "What do you mean by that?"

Sherlock opened his arms, placing them on the armrests of his armchair.

"That someone bothers to pick her lock to shoot her in the head and then set it all up to look as if it was a suicide, this was no ordinary murder. It was an execution. She certainly owed money to the wrong people."

John agreed with him, but that didn't explain the actual time of death. If forensics were correct, the victim was already dead when her executor had come to her home. In which case, if this theory was correct, why did he still bother to act at the risk of alerting the whole building? It was absurd.

"Nothing new in the file?" John asked then. "Perhaps there have been other elements in between."

Sherlock took his computer and turned it on. Meanwhile, John got up and went to the kitchen to boil water for tea. The charred bull's head was still on the kitchen table, and John thought that he would have to remind Sherlock either to package it or to get rid of it.

"Oh…" the latter's voice came in then.

John, pricking up his ears, returned to the living room. Sherlock was staring at the computer screen, frowning before an obvious illogicality.

"What's going on?" He asked.

"The toxicological analysis of the victim came out."

"And?"

Sherlock looked up at him.

"Medicine," he replied.

John frowned for a second, and then he understood.

"Drug overdose?"

"Phenobarbital."

"A barbiturate against anxiety and sleep disorders," John responded reflexively.

He went to Sherlock and leaned over his shoulder.

The analytical result was there, unquestionable. The victim had ingested a massive amount of phenobarbital, causing depression of the central nervous system and slowing down of bodily functions, followed by a coma that had led to the death. Not far from about fifty tablets had been found in her stomach. Sherlock then thought about the little piece of circular aluminium left on the carpet. The cap of a simple bottle of pills.

"A good old suicide by barbiturate," John concluded with disenchantment. "One thing for sure is that to swallow as much as she did, she really wanted to be done with it."

He straightened.

"So the time estimated by the forensic is correct," he summed up. "And now we have the actual cause of death. There is just one thing I don't understand: the murderer gets into his victim's flat. He finds her dead by suicide. Rather than leave her like that, why did he still bother to shoot her? He finds a suicide, that he turns into a murder, to disguise it as a suicide, it doesn't make any sense."

"Perhaps he had instructions," Sherlock suggested. "Perhaps the execution of the victim should serve as a warning to others, or maybe the murderer is good at his job but a bit dim when it comes to setting scenes."

Unfortunately, their sphere of action being limited, all comments from this step were reduced to theories. They certainly were now convinced that the victim had been "killed" twice, but they had no evidence to identify the perpetrator of the second action, which frustrated Sherlock at the highest point. He knew that the analysis of the firearm and the search for its origin would give excellent clues, but he had neither the weapon nor the means to study it. Which frustrated him even more. All he was able to do was send his findings to Lestrade and wait.

An article in the newspaper a few days later finally revealed the end of the puzzle. There was narrated that the history of the firearm found at the crime scene had helped to track down a man named Charles Hamilton. This man, who had acquired the gun legally, had sold it on a dedicated sales website. The buyer, after research of the transaction, had proven to be one Igor Ivanovitch, Russian subject working as a security guard in a casino. The latter, after several hours of interrogation, had finally admitted his guiltiness in the Greenwich case. The victim, with a debt of tens of thousands of pounds, had been unable to pay back. His boss had therefore ordered him to solve the problem, which he had been eager to do. The only problem was that his target was already dead when he arrived; at least she looked like it, with a pack of pills in her hand. But wishing to avoid problems if his target was to escape, he had done as he always did: conceal the murder into suicide and prove his work in the newspaper the next day. This dedication would eventually ruin it. His confession led to the arrest of his boss, the casino manager, and, according to the newspaper article, they were currently in detention waiting for the trial.

John closed the newspaper and put it with others on the coffee table. He knew that Sherlock had already read them and wouldn't bother to reread them again. Once the problem was resolved, the rest was only bureaucracy, a topic Sherlock found completely uninteresting.

The latter was leant on a toe he had brought out from the freezer to study the effects of freezing on the cells. Obviously, he hadn't yet found a case that could sharpen his curiosity.

John picked up the newspapers and threw them away.

.

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	5. Chapter 5

Okay, let's do this...

Unfortunately, there won't be any update today. Everything is fine, nobody is dead, but here is the thing: I have now a Britpicker, the awesome Hamstermoon on AO3 who, with all her awesomeness, offered to Britpick my work that, indeed, needeed this A LOT (bloody Google Translate for using American English, even if I have nothing against American English just for you to know :D).

It's just that my work will be now best than ever, with a real and proper edit (Asian-Inkwell, being from South Korea, uses American English), and I find stupid to make you read a bad version when the good one is just round the corner.

So, for know, I'll just edit the already existing chapter as the Britpicks come, and when I have the next chapter, I'll publish it immediately.

Sorry for the inconvenence, but it's for the best!


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